


Proposals

by BlackAquoKat



Series: Ours to Choose [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF, Who Killed Markiplier, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: 1940s lingo, Gen, Inspired by a Tumblr Prompt, Mayor Damien - Freeform, No romance in this one, Nonbinary Character, Other, Who Killed Markiplier - Freeform, Y/N District Attorney - Freeform, the DA, these two are the definition of slowburn, this DA has a bit of backstory, this is how they met, this will be an ongoing series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-17 10:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13656951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackAquoKat/pseuds/BlackAquoKat
Summary: In which a friendship destined to end in tragedy begins with a fake engagement.





	Proposals

**Author's Note:**

> A WKM AU for Damien and the DA inspired by the following post:
> 
> http://lesbianshepard.tumblr.com/post/153182037318/so-my-english-professor-told-us-this-story-last
> 
> I couldn’t help it. Welcome to my first contribution to the WKM fandom and an attempt to fill up the Y/N District Attorney tag as well. Warning: I get heavy into forties lingo and my DA has a backstory. Also, in my works Damien's surname is Goodwin.

You would be the first to admit it had been a strange way to begin a friendship.

The events fall into place at the orientation for University. You’re ushered into one group exploring the campus, but choose to linger towards the back of the group so as to avoid interaction. Not that you did not like people, per say, but…well, considering your secret, it feels better to keep to yourself for now. That is, you think that until one of the dark-haired boys hangs back to walk next to you.

“Hello there!” he greets with a blinding smile. “I’m Damien Goodwin.”

“Hi,” you greet quietly. You mumble your name under your breath.

Damien continues smiling as though you aren’t being deliberately challenging. “Pleasure to meet you. Where are you from?”

“I live here in the city.”

“Really? But I’ve never seen you around before!” He waves his hand dismissively. “No matter. What are you planning to major in?”

You hesitate. A deep breath, and then, “Criminal justice.”

Someone in the group snickers and you glare at the blond boy smirking at you in condescension over your answer.

Probably because you're not white, and don’t look like a man. Asshole.

Damien doesn’t laugh though. Matter of fact, he outright ignores the interruption and beams at you. “That’s incredible! The world can always use more people doing good in the world!”

Blond Bastard stares at Damien in disbelief (as do you, for that matter), but Damien continues to act like he isn’t there. You decide maybe there’s no harm in talking to Damien and give a little more elaboration to his questions. They prove to be rather uncomplicated inquiries. Simple ones. Mere small talk. Oddly enough, you don’t mind it. Damien’s voice is pleasant and deep, and he does not seem bothered by your short answers. Matter of fact, it doesn’t appear as though anything bothers him. Not the supervisor who ushers the two of you to hurry up, not the other students who begin mocking the two of you for getting told off.

He just…floats along, calm as a breeze.

As a result, you end up asking him questions (more small talk, but maybe that doesn’t have to be so bad) as well, and learn about him as you all learn the layout of the campus.

Damien wants to major Business Administration and minor in Political Science. He wants to become a politician (surprising, as he is seems far too honest for an aspiring politician, but hey, the world could use someone like that in power). He has a twin sister. He has two friends trying to achieve their own dreams at other Universities: an actor and a soldier (wouldn’t that make for a strange group of friends?).

All in all, when you part ways with him by the end of orientation, you decide that you like him. You don’t imagine you’ll ever see him again on this large campus, but if you do, you’ll remember him and wave hi.

Maybe he’ll wave back.

 

* * *

 

So while that first meeting was not so strange, the second meeting _is_.

Turns out, you would see him midweek on your way to your afternoon class, arguing with his mother, a frantic and wide-eyed looking woman. A severe, stoic man stands beside her. Probably his father. They are standing near the entrance to the university, luckily one you did not enter from.

You wind up hearing the tail end of the conversation, even though you _really_ need to hurry to class and drink up your coffee (a rare thing to enjoy with the country living on rations) while it’s still hot…

“Mother, I’ll be fine—”

“But you will call me every day and tell me everything you did, I need to remind you not to drink, to focus on your studies—”

“That isn’t necessary, Mother—”

“My boy,” the father interrupts, “knowing you, and your naivety, you will lose sight of your goals and flip your wig with every friend who invites you to parties—”

“Father, do you really think so little of me?”

“I believe you have it in you to be an impulsive child,” his father answers. “And I will not accept such behavior anymore.”

You catch a glimpse, unintentionally, of Damien’s face at this. He looks so downtrodden, so _sad,_ you wish you could do _something…_

He begins storming away from his parents, not even turning when his mother calls out to him advice as though he is a mere elementary student and you hurry to move out of their sight behind the corner of the nearest building. It probably won’t help his case if he’s seen walking towards someone like you: shorn hair, ragged clothes, most others have trouble telling if you’re a man or a woman (which is kind of the whole point, not that they need to know) and you’re often isolated because of that.

Damien still sees you when he passes the building and stops in his tracks. “Hey there!” he greets with a bright smile. “I haven’t seen you since orientation!”

You lift an eyebrow at his cheery behavior. “I guess not.”

“Where are you heading? I need to get to my American Government class.” He stares down at the paper in his hands. It looks like a map of the campus.

“Building Thirty-three?”

Damien perks up once more. “You too?”

“Um…yes?”

“Let’s go together then!”

He starts heading in that direction and you follow after him. May as well, since he’s making an effort to be so friendly.

You sigh as your curiosity and concern overcome your desire to keep the light mood he’s trying to maintain. “So…will everything be okay with your parents?”

Damien’s shoulders slump and he looks away. “You heard all of that?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine they…they aren’t very quiet.” Damien pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ever since my sister…well, they keep assuming I will behave as she has.”

“Because you’re twins?”

You curse inwardly at your lack of tact. Nice _going_.

Damien chuckles bitterly. “Yes, actually.”

“What did your sister do that makes them so worried about you?” You take a sip of your coffee, testing the temperature...

“She eloped with my best friend.”

You choke on the hot liquid and it dribbles down your chin. “She…wow, that’s bold,” you splutter as you try to wipe away the scalding pain.

Damien offers you a handkerchief without a word. You pat at your chin and hand it back to him with muttered thanks. Upon seeing his further downed spirits (if lightened by your mishap), you let the subject of his sister drop.

Several moments of silence pass comfortably before you decide to Hell with your isolationist tendencies. Time to take a chance.

“So, would you like to be ‘impulsive’ and grab drinks tonight?” you put forward. At his taken back expression, you’re quick to backpedal, “Or another time, or never, whatever you want…”

“Sounds brilliant!” Damien exlaims. “I think I could definitely do with some levity…and I don’t have a class until late tomorrow, so tonight works perfectly. Where should we meet?”

“Um…Freddy’s Pub down the street? We can meet at the library around four?”

“We should definitely do this! I can’t wait!”

Luckily, you both reach the classroom before you need to respond. He practically bounces to a seat, and pats the empty one next to him. You sit down with a small smile.

Maybe you should take chances more often.

 

* * *

 

The sunshine is _blinding_ the next morning.

A groan rumbles through your chest and you push your hair out of your face. The headache is just unbearable and the bright sun is just uncalled for.

You stiffen at the sound of another groan and finally take in your surroundings.

You’re in your home, thankfully, and you’re on _your_ couch. But you’re not _alone_ on the couch.

Damien is flung on the arm of the furniture, legs dragging on the hardwood floor and face buried in cushions. When he lifts his face and sees you, he jumps away wide-eyed and collapses to the ground with a pained cry.

“Are-are you okay?” you ask. Your voice is pitched low, mainly because if you try to speak up, you’ll just make your headache worse. Upon seeing you both fully clothed, if heavily ruffled, your worries about any accidental rendezvous are relieved.

 _"Swell,”_ he moans. He touches the back of his head and hisses. “I think I hit my head last night…”

At the concession, you recall certain events: you performing a handstand and Damien attempting the same, only to fall to the floor in a heap, giggling the entire time; him missing his mouth entirely after about five shots; and even his shirt somehow getting caught in a door hinge and tearing. You remember staying sober enough to drive the two of you here, but you also may have broken into an old stash of your parent’s liquor afterwards.

You are completely blown away at the fact that you dared to get so inebriated with a near-stranger, but that’s not the problem right now.

“Do you want some ice for it?” you ask.             

Damien shakes his head and cringes at the motion. “No, I-I think I’m fine.”

“As soon as I can feel my legs again,” you offer, “I’ll go make us a hangover cure.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Coffee or tea?”

“Tea.”

You finally stand up and glance at the grandfather clock. Your movements halt. “What time is your class at, Damien?”

“Four o’clock.”

 _Shit._ “Um…it’s three-thirty.”

Damien shoots to his feet and promptly stumbles backwards onto the couch again. “What am I going to do?!”

You assume he’s referring to his rumpled appearance. There’s the tear in the sleeve of his buttoned shirt, gel no longer holds his rather amazing hair in place, and alcohol scented breath. “My dad’s clothes should fit you,” you point down the hall on the right. “First door on the left. I’ll get your drink ready while you do that. The campus is a ten minute car ride there.”

“You are the _killer diller—_ ”

“Shut up and get ready, Chucklehead,” you order as you head into the kitchen to prepare what little tea and coffee you can manage on the rations you’ve hoarded.

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure your father won’t mind me borrowing his clothes?” Damien asks as you pull your beat-up car to the university. He looks surprisingly dapper in your dad’s old dress shirt and sweater vest.

He has yet to comment on your non-dressed appearance. You didn’t even bother changing your outfit from yesterday, since you don’t have a class today and, also, to save time for Damien’s sake.

“Considering he’s six feet underground, I’m sure he won’t mind,” you answer mildly.

Memories of the initial devastation erode (the thin paper of your mother’s letter, the ink splotched with tears from both before and after it had arrived, the warmth of your brother’s heartbroken embrace before it all fell apart worse than before, it’s only been a year, but there’s still glass shards in your chest).

You shove the thoughts into a box and toss it into an ocean.

“Oh…I, uh, I didn’t know.”

You shrug. “I didn’t tell you. Want me to make sure you don’t collapse on your way to class?”

“If you don’t mind. It’s only my fourth day, I’d rather not embarrass myself this early…”

You both exit the car and scurry towards the entrance, only for Damien to skid to a stop, face paling even worse than this morning.

You follow his gaze and see his parents.

“Shit,” you hiss.

Even in his horrified state, Damien chokes at your language, but he doesn’t get a chance to comment on it before they storm over to the two of you.

“How _dare_ you disobey us on your _first week_ away from home!” his father bellows.

“Father, please—”

“What do you think you did to your poor mother last night?” The man puts an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “What were you _thinking,_ calling in the middle of the night to tell us you were engaged?!”

“I’m sorry, _what?”_ you splutter.

Damien’s father switches his fiery gaze to you. “Is _this_ supposed to be your _fiancé,_ or was it merely the drunken ramblings of my delinquent son _?”_

You exchange glances with a _very_ panicked Damien, and then have a… _vague_ recollection of the two of you discussing a plan, in jest, where you would both pretend to get married to show his parents just how _impulsive_ he can be, and maybe snap them out of this constant paranoia about his behavior.

Judging from Damien’s expression, however, you assume he doesn’t recall actually _agreeing_ to go through with the prank either.

“Well, _son?”_

His mother’s biting question cements a decision you didn’t even realize you had.

With the most painted smile you can muster, you slide your hand into Damien’s and lean your head on his shoulder. “I couldn’t help but accept his proposal, ma’am, Damien is the most swell guy I have ever known, and I couldn’t wish for anyone better!” Your voice is so sugary sweet, it makes you sick. But it’s also _so_ satisfying to see his parents lose the color in their faces.

You feel Damien stiffen under your head and wonder if perhaps you shouldn’t have dared…

But then he relaxes and tightens his grip on your hand.

 _“Damien!”_ his mother shrieks.

“It’s true, mother,” he confirms cheerfully. His head leans against yours in return. “Won’t you both wish us well?”

“I will not!” his father growls. “I forbid this! You do not even know this—”

“We met yesterday, in class,” Damien interjects smoothly (part of you muses he may make a good politician yet). “We bonded over our love for politics, exchanged notes, and, well, that was that!”

“You met _yesterday?!”_ his mother gasps.

“Yes, I know it’s fast,” Damien waves his hand dismissively. “But what can I say? Love finds a way.”

“And it _really_ needs to find a way to your class, Sugar,” you deviate, “so let’s hurry on before we’re late!”

“Right, of course!” Damien waves to his parents as you pull him along. “I’ll see you both for dinner this weekend!”

As soon as you’re both out of earshot, you exchange glances, sinister smiles pulling at your cheeks.

Oh, this is going to be _fun._

 

* * *

 

You meet Damien at his dorm room, at his request, in order to solidify the plan. Since you see a long night ahead of you, you bring dinner…well, you bring canned vegetables and biscuits. College life during wartimes at its finest. Luckily his roommate is out with friends, leaving the room for your full use without judgment.

As a result, you’re sitting next to Damien on his bunk without a care in the world.

“So, how far are we going to go with this?” you ask him as you take a bite out of a carrot.

“I say we don’t admit the truth until the ‘I do’s,” Damien laughs. He chews on the edges of a biscuit before continuing, “We may as well see this through to the end.”

“So we’ll need to have some people in on it. Some professors, maybe.” You tap your chin. “I’m sure my mom will get a kick out of this. I’ll write to her.”

“Where is she?”

“She’s overseas,” you explain. “But that’s not important right now. Do you know anyone who can officiate a wedding?”

“Um…I think one of my professors mentioned he was ordained.” At your confused stare, he continues, “Apparently it’s how he met his wife. He told us about it the first day.”

“Oh! Well perfect, in that case!”

Damien chortles at your enthusiasm. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

You lift your eyebrow at his observation. “And you’re not?”

“Fair enough.” He chews on a piece of broccoli before asking, “How many people should we invite to the ceremony?”

“We’ll play it by ear. When should the big day be?”

Damien hums in thought. “We should begin ‘sharing’ surnames in two days, I think.”

“I can hardly wait, Sugar!”

 

* * *

 

 

Between the two of you (mostly Damien, since he apparently has this mystical quality which compels others to adore him on sight and hang onto every word he says as opposed to your prickly antisocial tendencies), you manage to garner about fifty guests by the next day: students, mainly, with a few professors who are in on the joke.

It’s almost too easy, how smoothly it all comes together at first. You and Damien consider renting the gym for the event until Professor Lee, the one who will be “marrying” the two of you, suggests the lovely gazebo on the campus.

You’re both there now, resting against the columns and clutching clipboards inscribed with the other minutiae of the plan. The setting sun leaves a stunning pinkish-orange glow over the campus, and it warms your back (you hate when the sun is in your eyes, so it’s well acquainted with your back).

“So, how likely is it that your parents will actually attend the wedding?” you inquire, tapping your pen to your lips.

“I honestly do not know,” Damien answers. His pen is tucked behind his ear. “On the one hand, they wouldn’t come in order to express the full extent of their disapproval. On the _other_ hand, I am the only child they have left now, would they really want to miss out on such an important event in my life?”

“Guess we won’t know until the day of,” you muse aloud. “Have you seen them since we broke the news?”

“No, but they keep calling to try to talk me out of it.” Damien jots a note down on the clipboard. “I think my roommate hates me, he finally unplugged the phone this morning when it rung off the hook.”

You smother a laugh behind your hand, before returning to your clipboard. “Okay, so do I want to wear a suit or a dress for my first fake wedding…”

When you catch a glimpse at Damien out of the corner of your eye, you realize you said that out loud. The blood rushes to your face and you need to remind yourself that breathing keeps you alive while you wait for his reaction.

(In hindsight, you _probably_ could have played it off as a joke, or even spun it as a quirky fashion choice to make his parents irate with a wink and quirk of your lips, but given the words to blow off your slip-up are already strangled in your throat, all hope of acting like you did not just expose your secret is for naught.)

Simultaneously, you realize what is so dangerous about Damien and what will probably make him such a fantastic politician in the future. His openness, his kindness, and his genuine behavior all serve to compel others to let down their guard. No one, _no one_ has ever gotten you to slip up like this, cut through years upon years of scar tissue grown to defend yourself, and it _terrifies_ you.

Especially since it seems like Damien is completely unaware that he has such a gift.

Damien blinks at you curiously, and if the seriousness of his gaze is any indication, he is fully aware of your mistake and its implications. He shrugs the next moment. “I say whatever you feel like. My parents are going to snap their caps no matter what you wear, so I say go with whatever _you’re_ comfortable with.”

“You…um…” you clear the hesitation out of your throat. “You don’t mind…?”

“Why would I mind?”

Bitterness crawls under your lips and you bite it back, but it still leaks through, “Some people do…”

(Some people you thought you could trust only for them to just leave and never speak to you again, some people who think you need to have your “proper identity” beaten into you when you don’t dress or behave as they believe you should, some people sling words that cut like knives or bullets that rip through the flesh of your lungs, but you don’t talk about that, none of that, you just go on with your life; dig the bullets out, stitch up the cuts with reality and stoicism, and give the world the façade they want, at least you can be who you want at home, the most important people in your life accepted you sans one, and he’s abandoned you now so what does it matter?)

“Well, I don’t,” Damien dismisses. “It’s like I always say: life is ours to choose.”

But _other_ people (just two _,_ no just _one_ because the other is underground, remember, dead from the fight for his country as if _that_ helps when the grief suffocates you in the middle of the night) offer balms with kindness and acceptance about your refusal to subject to binaries, and it makes the wounds easier to bear (maybe two again, maybe, _maybe)._

 A handkerchief appears next to your clipboard. Damien’s. You look up and see nothing but compassion lined in his face.

You hadn’t even noticed the tears welling in your eyes.

 

* * *

 

The night before the “big day,” Damien comes to you with unexpected news.

“They want to have dinner with us tonight?”

The two of you are studying in the library together. Not the school library, but the local one, since your shift will be starting in the next ten minutes and your boss likes you to at least arrive early. You are collecting your scattered notes from the table before you for your mandatory college math course (a subject you could have gone your entire life never touching again), but you’re a _little_ more preoccupied with the idea of speaking with Damien’s parents.

Damien nods and crosses his legs at the ankles. His socks are stripes of blue and pink (why do you notice that?). “I was surprised too. Maybe they think they can still talk us out of it.”

The amusement in his voice is _adorable_.

“In that case,” you begin, “We should probably establish our boundaries, huh?”

“What?”

“We have to act like we’re a couple, don’t we?”

Damien’s mouth gapes like a fish. “I…I didn’t even think of that.”

You chuckle at the blood rushing to his face. “Clearly.”

“Well-I mean…erm…” Damien clears his throat. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“Ultimately, we’re doing this for _you,_ Damien,” you interrupt. “So we can _act_ as intimate as you would like and I’ll go along with it.”

“I suppose…”

“I guess what you need to ask yourself is how uncomfortable you would like _them_ to be.” You collect the last of the papers and shove them into your backpack. “Since that is the primary goal here.”

You’re not a lovesick child who can’t discern reality from acting, so this will be a piece of cake. Not to mention you have a love for the performing arts; you took part in several school plays during high school, you shouldn’t be too rusty at acting.

“Uh…” Damien shakes his head with a nervous laugh. “I have no idea what I’d like to do, to be perfectly candid…I’ve never been in a fake relationship before.”

“Neither have I. You’re my first.” You wink at him and what the _hell,_ since when do you flirt, _shit,_ he’s going to think you’re an idiot—

Damien stares at you with wide dark brown eyes, mouth agape (you are regretting every decision you’ve ever made, why would you do this?!) before he laughs again, a little more genuinely. “That…I wasn’t expecting that from you.”

_That makes two of us._

You clear your throat and stand up. “Well, anyway, you better make up your mind before tonight, because,” you check the watch on your right hand, “my shift starts in two minutes, so I need to go. Where are we having dinner, how dressed up do I need to be, and where do you want to meet?”

 

* * *

 

“So…what are you attending University for?”

The question wouldn’t be such a bothersome one if it weren’t for his mother’s passive-aggressive I’m-sure-you’re-not-good-enough-for-my-boy tone.

The restaurant is one of the more higher-end ones—the like you and your family would never afford even if all four of you worked half-a-year—called Charlotte’s, and thus far, the wait for food has been the most awkward fifteen minutes of your life.

You take a sip of your water, a pocket of saved time to think up a response, and collect your nerves. “Criminal justice. I want to be a lawyer.”

Damien’s parents (Walter and Lois, you finally learned upon the official introductions) exchange glances at this. “Is that so?” Walter presses.

You nod.

Lois taps her blood red nails against the white-tablecloth. “Even after your marriage?”

Your brow furrows and you meet Damien’s gaze. He’s a little stiff in the shoulders, but that’s the only tell for how nervous he is about this whole situation. The suit he’s wearing looks more like a costume than a symbol of high class, then again that might just be because you witnessed him do cartwheels in similar attire the night before this whole fiasco began (the night that _caused_ the whole fiasco, you should say).

You look back at Lois. “My parents believe it’s important that I have a way to support myself, and I’m inclined to agree, so yes. Even after I marry Damien.”

Walter addresses his son. “And you approve of this decision?”

Damien surprises you when he places his hand over yours atop the table. “Absolutely. I respect my fiancé ambitions, and,” he turns to you with a smile more natural than anything else he’s attempted over the course of the night, “you respect mine, don’t you, love?”

You smile right back, and his silent support helps you muster your courage to initiate the more _fun_ portion of the charade before this gets anymore awkward.

Namely: speaking more of the very not-at-all-high-class wedding you two are planning.

“Now,” you begin, “there are only a few things left for us to take care of before tomorrow. Since my parents are overseas,” it astonishes you, how easily the lie falls from your lips (they don’t need to know about your father, after all, it’s none of their business, future fake-parents or not), “We have the flowers we need, I have my outfit put together, and we even found someone to officiate us.” You pretend not to notice his mother flinch at the last one. “The main problem is that I will need someone to walk me down the aisle.”

The blood leaves his parent’s faces, and you bite back the laughter bubbling in your throat.

“I was going to ask one of my Professors—McGowan, she teaches Women’s Studies at the university—but if _either_ of you are willing to do walk with me, that would make me _so_ happy!”

Once again, the powdery sugar sound of your voice is just _nauseating_ , but also, once again, it makes the act totally worth it to see Walter’s face redden to the shade of a pomegranate.

“I…” Walter’s mouth opens and closes like a trout. “See here—”

“Were you speaking to _me,_ too?” Lois squeaks. She looks like she wants to vomit.

“Of course!” You smile at her as innocently as possible. “Since my mom would have been the one walking me down the aisle if she were here, I would want to offer you the same opportunity!”

The color leaves Lois’s face, but she manages to keep from doing anything drastic. “I…I am not so sure that will be a good idea, my dear—”

“Well, if neither of you are interested,” Damien interjects as though his parents are not about to have individual coronaries, staring at you with such over enthused joy (you hope that means he’s having fun with this too), “I will walk with you, my dear.”

To your surprise, he presses a swift kiss to your cheek. Aside from a slight widening of your eyes, you think you hold onto your composure fairly well.

“Oh, thank you so much sweetie,” you gush. You turn to his parents again. “You have the most _amazing_ son, I don’t know _what_ I would do without him…especially with both of my parents—” you pretend to get choked up and fan your face a hint, “both my parents away, fighting for our country and the world…”

As Damien faux-coaxes you with his typical gentleness (hands patting your own and pulling you in for a small hug while muttering comforting words), you catch his parents alternating between expressions of what might be guilt and horror (whether it’s horror about your “situation” or the way you and Damien are playing up the couple act, you aren’t sure).

Dinner finally arrives and his parents take the opportunity to begin their food as quickly as possible, probably to avoid further conversation for as long as possible. 

 

* * *

 

As you and Damien leave the restaurant and bid his parents farewell, it takes every ounce of strength the two of you have to wait until his parents are out of sight before bursting into fits of laughter.

“You are a _fantastic_ performer, my friend!” Damien commends through his sniggering (a deep, rumbling sound in his chest). “You really frightened them with your act!”

“Frightened? I guess that’s one word for it!” you chuckle, hands on your knees. “You were fantastic too! Offering to walk me down the aisle? That was _perfect.”_

“Well, what’s a future husband for if not to make his fiancé happy?” he jokes with a wink. You shove him playfully and the two of you break down all over again.

You both walk to your car as you talk, gushing over each other’s performances and having a good laugh at the expense of his parents. This cheerful atmosphere lasts the two of you until the first traffic light.

“Back there, you mentioned your parents again,” Damien begins.

You roll your eyes. “If this is about not mentioning my dad, there is no room in this whole shindig to bring _that_ up—”

“No, I was going to ask about your mother.”

“…oh…”

“It’s just…obviously, she wasn’t drafted,” Damien begins, hesitation slowing his words, “and I just…I wondered why, with your father gone, she hasn’t returned to you.”

Your hands grip the steering wheel so tight you feel tendons pop.

“I’m not trying to judge her,” he hurries to add. “Obviously whatever she’s doing in the army is important, anything to stop the Nazis, I just wanted to ask—”

“She did it for my brother.”

Damien’s head jerks to you, but you focus your eyes on the road, blinking away thoughts of the last time you saw James. The traffic light changes and the scenery outside moves once more.

“I didn’t…I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“He left some time ago,” you explain briefly. “For…reasons”

 _Because he doesn’t approve of me, doesn’t approve of my choices, and hates that our parents_ do _._

“But before he took off,” you continue, choking down the pain like bile, “Mom and Dad were worried about the draft. They didn’t want him to be enlisted, because…well, I think that would be obvious. But they weren’t happy with just my dad enlisting when we have an able-bodied young man, so my mom offered to go instead, and James promised to look out for me while they were gone.”

Damien doesn’t say anything for a long time. He doesn’t need to. The fact that you’re alone in your house says enough.

“He pays the rent every month,” you add. “Among other bills, and he sends me money in case I don’t make enough to eat, but that’s it. I’m getting through this first semester on scholarship money and what I have saved up from working at the library.” You shrug. “It’s fine.”

And it _is_ , you tell yourself. Solitude doesn’t bother you. The quiet in your house doesn’t reach into your head and suffocate your thoughts (not all the time anyway). You can cook your own meals when you have the rations you need, and the radio offers pleasant background noise and war propaganda to listen to (though you were tempted to chuck it out the window when it mentioned the battle your father died in as a _successful operation_ ).

When Damien’s hand rests on your shoulder, you take in a deep breath and let it out as you pull into the entrance to his dorm.

You clear your throat and glance at him with a smile. “Guess I’ll see you at ten o’clock sharp then, darlin’?”

Damien returns your smile. “Of course!” But partway out of the car, he stops. Looks back at you.

“What is it?”

He chews on his bottom lip. “Actually…can I spend the night at your place?” He must sense the irritation stirring in your skin and adds, “This isn’t pity, I left my suit at your house last time I was there and it will be more convenient for us to get ready and drive here together, since I’m walking you down the aisle anyway.”

But by the quirk of his lips, he knows you see right through that, and also knows you can’t exactly argue with the logic.

Not that you really _want_ to argue, but he doesn’t need to know that. Nor does he need to know how much you’ve enjoyed his company and time these past few days, a welcome reprieve from the crushing quiet.

“Sure, but I’ll be taking the couch,” you assert.

“What, no!” he argues as he shuts the door on the car. “I’m the guest, _I’ll_ take the couch!”

“I’m the host, it’s only fair—” you cut off and drop your head back against your seat. “There’s more than one bed in the house,” you recall with a sigh.

Damien bursts into such loud, bellowing laughter and it warms you up from the inside like a warm cup of coffee, so you can’t really regret your embarrassing mishap.

As you watch the streetlights flicker against Damien’s laughing face out of the corner of your eye, you’re reminded of the moon.

You’ve heard your fellow students, men and women both, describe him like a sun, and personally, the comparison doesn’t feel accurate. The sun is too bright, too harsh, and it’s _there_ whether you want it or not, a constant irritating if necessary part of life.

Moonlight, on the other hand, is a subtle sort of loveliness that illuminates dark places and leaves you breathless. His smile is like that, a refined but illuminating show of teeth. It draws everyone around him in like the tide, and even if they could, people never seem to look away from him.

It’s just _really_ not fair.

 

* * *

 

One would think it would take far longer to prepare for a wedding, fake or not, but between you, Damien, and the professors recruited for the ruse, the event is ready to go in under an hour.

A makeshift pathway, a crowd of the guests (students) on either side, leads to the minimally decorated gazebo. Flower petals have been strewn about (Professor McGowan had a little too much fun with that part, there are petals _everywhere,_ she is turning out to be your favorite one so far), and lovely white streamers are hanging across the lower parts of the gazebo.

You and Damien are sneaking glances at the crowd from a classroom on the second floor building closest to the site. Neither of you can stop giggling.

“I can see your parents,” you point out.

“Really, Mother? A black veil?” Damien rolls his eyes. “It’s not a funeral.”

“Well, I guess it could turn into one if she decides to kill me,” you muse aloud.

“Oh, don’t even jest about that.”

Something in his voice sounds…off, with the statement, joking as it is. Matter of fact, he keeps scanning the crowd with an intensity you haven’t seen him display yet.

“Everything alright?” you ask.

Damien forces a smile and looks at you with a false light in his eyes. “Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Damien.”

His act lasts for about another four seconds before it drops with a sigh and he looks back out the window. “I just…I was hoping Celine would have come.”

Your confusion is brief. “Your sister?”

He nods. “I mean, I know it was last minute, and she lives hours away now, but I called her the night we started planning to let her know...I mean, I know it’s not my _real_ wedding, but _she_ doesn’t know that, and I...I guess I thought her and Mark would…”

Your lips press together in sympathy.

In the short time you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve noted his tendency to always believe the best about people and while it is very sweet (if suspicious, no one can _possibly_ be this nice), this attitude may blind him to just how sour reality is. And from what little you’ve gleaned, his sister does not seem like the ideal sibling (that makes two of you now).

To be honest, however, you cannot really condemn the blind optimism that led him to this dejection. As a matter of fact, you could really use it right now. The wedding and relationship itself may be fake, but you’d still like to remain friends with Damien when the charade is over and done with.

This thought in mind, you step closer to him and put a hand on his arm with a light squeeze. He covers your hand with a sad grin.

“But anyway, now is not the time for despondent thoughts!” Damien declares, stepping away from the window and your touch. He adjusts his tie and the flower stuck in his front suit pocket. “We have our wedding to get to!”

You allow for the deflection, mainly because it looks as though the crowd below is getting restless. “Okay, so you have your vows prepared?” you check.

“Absolutely, yours?”

“Of course I do!”

Damien holds his arm out to you, gentleman that he is, and lifts his chin like the high class brat he also is (you think fondly). “Shall we begin then, my dear?”

You place your hand in the crook of his elbow and click your heels together. “Let the final act begin!”

 

* * *

 

You never really understood the phrase “glaring daggers” until you and Damien passed his parents down the aisle.

Is his mother actually _crying? Really?_ If this whole thing were real, you would be far more insulted.

As the two of you reach the end of the aisle, your arms lower, only for him to grasp your hand. You squeeze it in return.

“Dearly beloved,” Professor Lee begins, “we are gathered here today…”

As he speaks, you and Damien have to stifle laughter every time Lee looks pointedly down at the two of you, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

That had been a surprise, to be honest. When you and Damien first approached him about the situation, you had expected an ornery old man to look down on such behavior.

The trouble with that theory was that Professor Hiro Lee is _not_ an ornery old man. He is a wonderful, progressive teacher from China with an incredible sense of humor and he is the primary reason why so many other professors joined in the fun. The chance to mess with backward-thinking parents is just too good of a chance to miss.

You know better than to believe the rest of your professors will be such for the remainder of your college life, but it’s a pleasant start.

“Are your vows prepared?”

Lee’s question yanks you out of your thoughts and you and Damien recite the official vows you had practiced together on and off over the past few days (part of you regrets that you two didn’t really have the time to ad-lib original vows intended to make his parents squirm instead of memorizing the more official ones).

“Now, do we have the rings?”

You and Damien accept the rings from Professor McGowan, who winks at you surreptitiously (the lovely Irish-native looks like she will be another favorite, she’s the one who found the ring props from the Theatre Department). You smother a giggle as you and Damien put the rings on one another’s fingers and repeat the promises and declarations of love Lee requires you to say.

A loud sob chokes behind you (it sounds like Lois again), and the two of you ignore it with barely-hidden grins.

“By the power of your love and commitment,” Professor Lee declares in a booming voice, “and the power vested in me, I now pronounce you…” he pauses and glances between the two of you with a sparkle in his eyes, “…I now pronounce you the opportunity to make your announcement!”

“Thank you very much, Professor!” Damien responds as he turns to the crowd behind them. “Everyone, we have something very important to tell all of you!”

A quiet and frantic muttering comes over the students you actually invited and others who just gravitated toward the crowd (and the chance to skip whatever weekend classes they were insane enough to take). Lois’s face is blotchy with running mascara and Walter appears as confused as everyone else.

“Shall you inform them, or shall I?” Damien asks you.

“It’s your show, Damien,” you say.

“Very well then!” Damien addresses the crowd again, arms wide open. “We’re not getting married!” he announces delightfully. “We never _planned_ on getting married!”

A collective gasp. More louder mutterings.

“DAMIEN!!” Lois screeches. “What is this?!”

“It was a prank,” you decide to toss in, loud enough for just his parents to hear you. “Since you apparently believe your son to be such a… _delinquent,”_ you let the venom lace into your voice, “we decided to give you what you were expecting.”

What little color is left in his mother’s face fades away. His father, on the other hand, turns a dark shade of red. “Now see here you little ingrate—”

“Please do not speak to my friend in such a way, Father,” Damien defends with a hand on your shoulder.

“Alright you hooligans!” bellows Professor McGowan. “Time for you to head home or to your current class, the show is over!”

“Listen to the lovely lady, please!” Professor Lee adds.

The Professors wink at you surreptitiously as they shoo the lingering students away from what is turning into a very personal scene.

You and Damien step down from the gazebo and approach his parents.

“You—how could—do you have any _idea—_ ” Lois stutters through her words. “How could you do this to us?!”

“I could pull your inheritance for this!” Walter threatens with a disapproving finger waggle. “I could—”

“What? Take me out of University?” Damien finishes. “Make me live at home? Forbid me from seeing my friends? How well have those tactics worked for you in the past?”

Walter’s finger freezes in mid-air, and strange inarticulate sounds cough out of his throat.

“Now that we have accomplished in making you believe your worst fears were coming to life about my choices,” Damien continues, “me and my friend here will be going. We have a dinner planned to celebrate a successful operation. You may take from this entire situation what you will, but we are done for the evening.”

You meet the eyes of his parent’s a courage bordering on threatening. “You have an amazing son. Don’t throw it away because you’re worried about his future. Also, thanks again for paying for dinner the other night, it was delicious,” you tack on as an afterthought.

Neither of you bother to observe their reactions to such a statement. You simply walk off of campus together hand-in-hand.

Later on, in the car, Damien asks, “Did you really mean that?”

“Of course,” you answer. “I can count on one hand the times I’ve eaten a steak without worrying about going hungry for the rest of the month.”

Damien chuckles. “I think you know that’s not what I’m referring to.”

You roll your eyes, but decide he’s earned an honest answer. “I’ve known far too many wealthy men in my life, and all the ones I’ve met are spoiled, entitled bastards who expect everything to be handed to them on a silver platter. They throw enough tantrums to damage others, and the only punishment they get is offering a settlement.” Your thumb taps against the steering wheel. “Imagine my surprise when I belatedly realized that the kind, well-spoken boy who first decided to talk to me at Orientation is the son of one of the most influential men in the state.”

Damien scoffs. “I’ve never liked that title…seems like everyone wants to be friends with _that_ kid instead of just… _me.”_

“That’s my point though,” you continue. “You’re not _that kid._ You’re…you’re so much _more.”_

You can’t put it to words now. Despite the time you’ve spent together, you still do not know him very well. One day you will be able to explain it better, but for now…

“I think _you_ are pretty damn amazing.”

In the following silence, you wonder if you’ve once again put your foot in your mouth. This is what you get for trying to sound sentimental—

“Thank you…” Damien clears his throat and pats your upper arm. “That…that means a lot to me.”

“Don’t mention it.”

 

* * *

 

The idea to have a celebratory dinner had actually been an exaggeration. In reality, you and Damien had long planned to go for drinks after the charade ended.

You down a shot of whiskey in one gulp. “So, how do you imagine it will go with your parents after all of this?”

“To be perfectly honest, my good friend,” Damien slurs (he is a complete lightweight, you learned from that first night, so you are trying to stay a little sober for his sake), “I don’t think they will speak to me for a long time. Next time I visit them, they will either pretend I’m not there or they’ll act like the whole situation never happened.” His shoulders shrug up and down. “I can live with that. At least I’ve made my statement.”

“Good on you, Chucklehead,” you commend. “I guess it’s over now…” you mutter.

“Of course the wedding is over!” Damien cheers. “We just had it—”

“No, I meant…this,” you gesture between the two of you. “We’re not pretending to be a couple anymore, so…we’ll be going our separate ways, right?”

“What, did you think I would just stop being your friend after all we’ve done together in a mere half-week?” Damien mocks. He points to you with an unsteady finger. “Too late! You, my friend…” he belches under his breath, “are stuck with me for the rest of our lives.”

You know better than to believe words said under the influence, but nonetheless, it reassures you to hear that at least _one_ part of Damien wishes to stick around.

The conversation roams into multiple directions aimlessly until you decide Damien has had enough alcohol to last the week and begin directing him to your car. Luckily, he’s not as heavy as one would think, otherwise his leaning on you would make this much more difficult.

While he’s so drunk he can barely see his fingers, you decide to take him to your house so he can recover since you doubt his roommate will appreciate you randomly appearing with a slurring and giggly Damien in tow at half-past midnight.

At this rate, you may as well just have Damien live with you.

The thought makes you stumble and you nearly drop him to the ground.

Where the _hell_ did that thought come from?

You shove him into the passenger seat and shut the door as quickly as possible. You make it to the driver’s side before leaning against the vehicle and dropping your head into your hands, heat rushing to your cheeks and heart pounding out of your chest.

You are in _so_ much trouble.

 

* * *

  

The next morning, when Damien awakens, you have a cup of tea ready for him in one hand and your own steaming coffee in another.

His hair is the most ruffled you’ve seen, and his shirt is only partially, and incorrectly, buttoned.

“Oh God…” Damien glances around, bleary-eyed, and groans. “Did you drag my drunk ass to your home _again?”_

You bite your lip and shift awkwardly. “Should I not have—”

“No, no! I’m glad, I just…” He rubs a hand down his face and accepts the mug of steaming tea, inhaling the minty scent like oxygen, “I’m sorry you had to do that... _again.”_

“It’s my pleasure,” you dismiss as his takes a tentative sip. “I figured your roommate wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion, as late up as we were.”

“Nonetheless, it was very considerate of you…” Damien shakes his head. “This doesn’t need to become a habit.”

Blood runs cold under your skin and you struggle to gulp down the tumor in your throat. You knew he was too intoxicated to mean anything he said last night, you were expecting this, you’ve been expecting this moment since Damien first expressed an interest in you as a friend…

So _why_ does it still feel like someone is driving splinters into your chest?

“You’re right…it doesn’t…I mean, we’re all done with the wedding and your parents—”

His brow furrows at you, confused. In the next second his eyes widen to the size of dinner plates and he interjects, “Oh no! I meant drinking myself into oblivion, not-not _this!”_ He grabs at your hand and it catches you off-guard just how _warm_ his hand is (probably from the mug). “No, I absolutely still wish to visit you and be your friend and not to sound strange, but the beds here are far more comfortable than the University, and my roommate hates me, so you’re already far better company, and I’m rambling, my apologies.” He presses his lips together and pats your hand in an uneasy rhythm.

Your pulse starts thrumming once again in relief (he’s still holding your hand, you hope he doesn’t notice).

“I’m glad,” you finally whisper, and Damien’s shoulders lose their tension. “I’ve actually gotten used to talking to someone, and…it’s nice, not being stuck in my own head.”

Damien smiles and you think perhaps there is a bit of sunshine there after all. “I believe we have a deal then!” He lifts his mug in a toast. “To new friends!”

The strangest feeling is twisting in the pit of your stomach, and you think it’s just nerves about the possibility of actually having a friend who will stick around.

(Years and years later, from the ashes of an aftermath caused by one man’s hatred and vengeance, you will look back on this moment, the official beginning of your friendship with the greatest man you will ever know, and mourn the inevitability of the terrible future awaiting you both; but right now, you don’t know what’s to come. How could you have known? How could any of you have known?)

And so, unaware of the true depths of your sense of foreboding, you clink your mug against Damien’s with more hope than you’ve allowed yourself to feel in a long time. “To new friends!”


End file.
